“Or maybe to make herself happy!” he hissed. “Jesus, she bought you at that auction. She watches you when you’re not looking, and it’s been going on for almost two years. That woman is so far gone for you that she might as well tattoo that ring on her finger. If you want to run away from this because you’re scared, I get it. I do. It’s fucking terrifying to give yourself over to someone completely. To give a woman the power to destroy you. But you’re fooling yourself if you don’t see that she already has that fucking power in those hands of hers. I’ve seen it every time you’ve put yourself in front of her against a threat, and every time you have to rip your eyes away from her.”
“What the fuck are you trying to say?” I ripped my hand over my still-damp hair.
He shook his head, obviously searching for words. “I’m saying that if you’re torn between keeping your distance and living in the moment, then my suggestion as your friend is that you live in the moment.”
“You were the one who told me to run,” I reminded him.
“For fuck’s sake. I told you if you were going to use your damage as an excuse to run, that you do it back then. Months ago. That was then. This is now. And you might not see it, but you are in this so fucking deep, my man. So if there’s even the slightest chance you think it could work—and I mean like a one in a billion shot—then you take it. Because the pain is coming for you either way at this point.”
“I’ll hurt her. My temper—”
“You haven’t really lost your shit in almost two years, Cannon. You’re not the same guy you were before you came here. Before you met her. But maybe the truth is that you’re not scared of hurting her. Maybe you’re scared of her hurting you.”
My eyes flared, and my stomach tensed.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said softly. “Look. We don’t get a lot of chances to be happy in life. If you have a chance to be happy, even if it’s just for a few months, then be happy. It’s better to have loved and lost, right?”
“Alfred Lord Tennyson was a fucking idiot.” I turned and walked toward the car door.
“Think about it!” Logan called from his car in the next spot.
“You’re no longer my best man!” I snapped, but didn’t mean a single word of it.
“Whatever. I’m planning the best bachelor party ever, you surly bastard.”
“I’m already married!” I got in the car.
“No shit! Now act like it!”
I contemplated his words as I drove home. Maybe he was right, and I should enjoy every second I had with Persephone while I had it. But it would only hurt that much more when shit went south, and I was fooling myself to think she’d be the only one hurt.
I wanted her with a ferocity that bordered on insanity. Not just her body, but her heart, and her mind, and her inherent goodness. I wanted to be the man she thought I was. I wanted to prove myself worthy of her…but was that even possible? What if all she really wanted was what she’d said—to make her mother happy. Oh, and sex. She was pretty clear that she wanted that.
But what if I lost myself a little more every time I took her? What the fuck would be left of me when this all fell apart? When she laughingly walked away and returned to the country club crowd?
My thoughts raced as I pulled into the garage and then hauled my gear inside, dropping my bag in the mudroom.
Holy shit, it smelled delicious in here.
I hung my keys and headed into the kitchen, then leaned against the doorframe and watched my wife’s ass—the only visible part of her thanks to the door—wiggle as she got something out of the pantry. The Beatles were on full blast, singing about holding someone’s hand.
Her shorts were impossibly small, ending just beneath the curve of her ass, and I had the sudden urge to bite that little strip of flesh beneath the hemline.
“Honey, I’m home,” I called out.
“Ooh!” she shrieked. “I didn’t hear the door open. I must have been lost in my own thoughts.”
I pivoted toward the speaker, turning off the tunes. “Or it could have been the music up on decibel four trillion. What is that incredible smell?”
Her head popped out of the pantry. “Peanut butter cookies.”
I blinked, then followed where she pointed to see a cooling rack full of my favorites. Shit, that ache was screaming in my chest. “I thought you were making chocolate chip cookies?”
“I already did. And ran them over to my mama. Then I got home and decided to make you a little treat.” She walked out of the pantry with a tub of peanut butter. “I ran out with the first batch, and this sucker was on the highest shelf.”
She set the jar on the counter and I grinned. She was wearing a Reaper jersey, tied at the side and rolled at the sleeves.
Walking forward, she plucked a cookie off the cooling rack and then held it to my lips. “I promise it won’t kill you. And I promise I won’t bake again until after the playoffs.”
If she was still here.
I opened for her and took a bite of the cookie, letting my tongue drag over her fingertips. It was still warm and soft and tasted like Saturday afternoons, which ironically, this was. “That’s amazing,” I praised.
She smiled wide, stopping my heart. “I’m glad you like it.”
She handed me the rest of the cookie, and I devoured it as she turned to walk around the island.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She wasn’t just wearing a Reaper jersey. She was wearing one of my Reaper jerseys. Not the ones the fans could buy on websites or even the store in the arena. It was one of my game jerseys. That’s why she had the sleeves rolled and the waist tied. That thing had to have come to her fucking knees.
“Cannon? Are you okay?” Her brow puckered as she stood over the mixing bowl, watching me.
“You’re wearing my jersey.” She had my name on her back. A wave of primal possession washed over me.
She glanced down and laughed softly. “Oh. Right. Sorry, I got peanut butter all over my shirt, and this was hanging in the mudroom closet. Wait. Are you mad?”
The way her southern accent curved around the words was sweeter music than anything she could have been playing through the speaker.
“No.” My tone was gruff.
“Okay, then. Good,” she said with a bright smile. “What were you thinking about for dinner?” she asked as she turned around to grab a cookie sheet, flashing my name and number over her back again.
If you have a chance to be happy, even if it’s just for a few months, then be happy.
Logan’s words echoed through my brain.
Then the only sound in my head was my own voice chanting, mine. Mine. Mine.
I stalked across the hardwood floor, rounding the corner of the island when she looked up. She must have seen something in my eyes because the cookie sheet rattled against the counter as she dropped it.
“Cannon?”
“Persephone,” I growled her name like the curse and the prayer it was, then gripped the nape of her neck and kissed her.
She gasped, and I filled her mouth with my tongue, stroking it against hers, demanding her response. She gave it, gripping my arms and rising against me, kissing me back without reservation.